


Brotherly Love

by valerienne (valderys)



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-21
Updated: 2010-05-21
Packaged: 2017-10-09 15:21:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/88829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valderys/pseuds/valerienne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Dom wishes he knew what it was about Sean Astin that drives him completely fucking insane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brotherly Love

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2005.

Sometimes Dom wishes he knew what it was about Sean Astin that drives him completely fucking insane. He thinks about it occasionally, in idle moments, when he doesn't have anything better to do. In New Zealand, it crossed his mind more than once that he could happily strangle Sean. When Sean was going on about some particularly inane safety feature, or his anxieties about his weight, or about the weather, or about the fact that his leg might feel a bit funny, or whatever the bloody hell it was that week, well, then Dom had most definitely bitten back a smart alec remark or two. Or three. It had occurred to him, in fact, that he could quite cheerfully see Sean's lifeless body decorating some shabby, overly-pretentious and velvet-clad funeral parlour, and, in that unlikely circumstance, he wouldn't be upset, or even particularly surprised, since it was obvious that somebody had been bound to kill Sean sooner or later. And more likely sooner, in Dom's opinion.

In fact, in these idle fantasies, Dom was always quite pleased with himself for imagining the funeral home, for visualising the dark red drapes, and the brass vases of lilies, and the overly stuffed furniture being guarded by overly stuffed employees. He felt pleased with himself for having such a civilised fantasy, and when that happened he even found himself modelling the beechwood coffin, and picturing the fussy white lace pillow inside the rouched silk-lined box. And Dom thought Christine and Alex would appreciate the beautiful arrangements, and the obvious care that he, Dom, had taken, and they wouldn't be that sad at all. Not really.

It had helped to tune Sean out, in New Zealand. It had. Really.

But now, here in LA, Dom wonders what he can do. It doesn't seem fair any more to sometimes think of Sean as having shuffled off this mortal coil, not here in his home town. Not when Sean is being so helpful, constantly coming round to check on him, see how he's doing, in his first months here in a new city. Bringing round a plateful of homemade cookies from Christine, or a homemade cake theoretically from Alex, although Dom is suspicious of the skill involved. Until it turns out to be a little sunk in the middle, and the hole filled in with extra chocolate icing, so that it resembles a miniature icing lake. That makes Dom smile reluctantly, whoever it was from. Christine and Alex both know his fondness for chocolate icing.

There are invitations to dinner too, and offers of introductions to agents, and people Sean knows in the business. And through it all Dom can only say thank you, Sean, I'll call them later, of course I will. And not mention that he doesn't have a phone yet, because his mobile from home doesn't work in the States, and he doesn't have a credit card, or a proper address, and they won't give you a cell phone contract without one these days, of course they won't, because he could be anyone, right? And the fact that he's Dom Monaghan, actor, with Lord of the Rings on his résumé, cuts little ice with the bored teenager in the shop working his Saturday shift to make ends meet, and is a wannabe himself, because everyone is in LA. Everyone.

And it doesn't help, Dom thinks. It doesn't help that he's a wannabe himself, really. He wants to break into the Hollywood machine so much, it hurts, it physically hurts sometimes. He wants to do lunch, and have his people call their people, and he wants to have a fad diet, and a personal trainer. He wants all this, wants it all too much sometimes, and he feels like he's holding out good old Merry Brandybuck like he's a sacrifice on some fucking pagan altar, like he's some golden ticket to the Dream. Look, he wants to say, look at me! I'm a famous hobbit, watch me dance, watch me sing. You want me sweet? I can do that. You want me crying? I can do that too. See? See?

It's fucking sad, that's what it is.

And what does he get from his best mates, now he's made this momentous step, this giant leap across the pond? He gets support, of course he does, but Billy is thousands of miles away, and the ache of that is surprisingly sharp. Maybe it's odd, but Dom finds that he misses Billy more than he misses Manchester and his family, more than he misses chips and curry sauce, or red post boxes, or watching Carol Vorderman doing her thing on Countdown on days when he can't be bothered to move off the sofa. Because, and Dom knows this when he thinks about it, Manchester felt really weird, when he was back. Dislocated maybe. Or smaller. It was just a place, like other places he's lived in his life, and he should have expected that, but somehow he hadn't. When you move a lot, it's the people that end up mattering, Dom knows that, but right now, rather than his family, rather than anything else, instead it's Billy that feels like home. Dom wants to hear his voice, or even better, have him over so they can play some stupid beat-em-up game, and piss themselves laughing at Dom's girly impressions of the females with the most impressive high kicks. And, instead, he can't even ring him, not properly, because he doesn't have a cell phone, and that's somehow worse than all the rest. Homesickness isn't meant to make you really feel sick, but he does.

And what does he get instead? He gets the Astin version of tea and sympathy, and Dom has to be properly grateful, has to smile and smile and be… Well, not a villain, but it sends him off on a tangent in his own mind. Would theatre work be something to try and aim for? It's not that respected here though, not here in Hollywood, where everything is celluloid. Celluloid smiles, and bodies, and even feelings. All packaged up and sold for millions of dollars at the box office, and in the press. And then, even as he thinks these things, he ends up feeling fucking guilty, for despising the very machine he's come to join. And Sean's there giving him cookies, the very child of Hollywood, never known another life, and Dom wonders about all of Sean's anxieties and insecurities, and that scares him too. Is that what Hollywood does to you? Is that how he'll end up as well, now he's plunged into the life head first? It's a nightmare, in a way. A nightmare in a gingham cover, with a china plate.

So instead he finds he ends up lying on the sofa instead of going out, and he takes the cookies, and he gives them to Lij, who gives him more than one odd look, but eats them anyway, because he's more of a bottomless pit even than Dom. And then goes on about yummy hazelnuts until Dom's sick to death of hearing about them.

Because that's Lij's way of trying to help, Dom knows that, as if he hasn't done enough already. But Lij isn't really here that much, what with being off sorting out projects, and auditions, and meet-and-greets. He gets Dom to come to as many as he can, and Dom's grateful for that too. He is. He's fucking grateful all over the place. But he's already staying in Lij's folks pool-house, and Lij has also offered to get him a phone, and Dom doesn't know why he keeps saying no. Misplaced pride? The bloody stupid idea that he wants to stand on his own two feet? He hasn't told Lij that having an address that includes the words 'pool-house' has not helped his chances with the spotty kid at the phone shop. Or at the bank. Or anywhere, in fact. And that he's too bloody stubborn to use the proper address. Lij would say he's being an asshole, and he'd be right.

To be honest, Dom feels like he's too busy trying not to be absorbed into yet another family. He doesn't think he can handle that right now. Because Lij's mom is a cool lady, and very friendly – she wants to get to know him better. And Hannah's just far too curious for her own good. But that's something Dom can tell that Debbie's not happy about. So her attempts to win him over, to draw him into another celluloid-fuelled home-sweet-home picture with roses round the door – well that's just not going to happen. And Hannah's a sweet kid, but. Just but.

Then there are the Astins. And, well, they just won't let him alone. That's the problem, Dom thinks. When it comes down to it. Lij gets busy, too busy to notice how Dom isn't going out otherwise, and anyway, Dom goes to enough parties with him, that Lij thinks he's done his bit, and lets him have his own space the rest of the time. But Sean? Sean never does know when to leave things alone. He never has. And Sean has to keep giving, and Dom has to keep feeling grateful. He doesn't want the cookies, or the sympathy, or the help. He bloody doesn't. He wants Sean to just fuck off. But he can't say that. Of course he can't. And it's driving him completely fucking insane.

***

So there's a knock on the screen door, isn't there, and Dom's peeling the label off his third bottle of beer. The condensation has just got the glue just slippery enough that he reckons it's going to peel off in one piece if he concentrates hard enough, if he ignores fucking stupid interruptions like a random knock on the screen door. He likes to get the label off in one piece, like it's lucky or something, although Dom's not sure he believes that, but there's a little plastered stack of them on the corner of the coffee table that attests to his skill. It's nice to have a skill, Dom thinks. It's nice to be good at something.

The screen door is creaking a little now as it's opened, and Dom wishes that he'd locked it. Can't get any bloody privacy round here. But he never locks it, partly out of laziness, but partly for Lij, who still hasn't learnt to remember his keys. He doesn't look up, the label having reached that delicate point where it could tear if he's not very careful, and anyway if it's Lij, he'll say hey, and Dom will say hey back, and he doesn't need to look up for that. So instead he closes his eyes when Sean's voice begins its well-worn greeting routine, like the politician he might be some day, all oiled and smooth and Californian, and Dom doesn't wince, he doesn't, because that would be rude, and he's not going to do that to Sean. It's another test, really, Dom decides, like peeling the labels, and it's nice to have a skill, remember?

So he opens his eyes, and stands, leaving the label halfway on the bottle, and instead plasters a sincere smile on his face, and thinks, acting, right, just a bit of practice. Nothing wrong with that. And then he's surprised because there's another bloke with Sean, one he's not met before, who looks a bit uncomfortable, and Dom widens his eyes a fraction before he shakes the guy's hand. He's about average height, this guy, which makes him at least three inches taller than either him or Sean, and he's got nice floppy brown hair, and a pleasant face. He looks a bit too polished, thinks Dom, a bit too buffed and whitened, a bit manufactured – like the Hollywood version of the boy next door – but that's not his fault, probably, it just happens here in LA. Like coughing in the smog.

He tunes in again to Sean to discover that this is Mackenzie, call him Mac, Sean's brother, and that makes Dom raise more than one mental eyebrow. More family. Fuck, when will Sean learn? He scans the pool-house for anything too obviously disgusting to be on display to guests and decides that it will have to do. It's not like he really cares anyway. Not when Sean's going to spring something like this on him.

Sean has produced an envelope, a violently pink envelope, which he beams and holds out. It almost makes Dom want to throw it at his head, this assumption of fatuous pleasure, this fucking weight of expectation that Sean always seems to have. But instead he takes it, and begins to open it as he listens to Sean's latest news. He's got another part, it seems or the possibility of one anyway, a tv series, but the part's been written specially for him. Something a bit sci fi, post-apocalyptic, he'll have to see if he can get some previous episodes to watch, because you know sci fi fans are the best, the most dedicated, they'll spot any mistakes, he'll need to read up on apocalypses, and… Fuck, thinks Dom, he never shuts up. Tv series, catch me doing another tv series, I'm a bloody movie star now. I am. And ignores the flutter in his chest.

He's opened the envelope, absently, as he's interjecting the odd murmuring noise of encouragement, as he's been watching Mac's lips tighten a little and his smile become strained. So it's without any real expectations that he stares down at the garish card, home-made of course, with more pink inside, and big gold stars, and a fat crayoned cartoon of… He squints and then swallows. It's from Alex, it must be. But the cartoon is of himself, a round babyish attempt to draw the little image that he scrawls with autographs sometimes. The simple oval face with the enormous smile, the huge half moon ears and the tufted hair. Simple enough for even a child to draw. It stands next to little stick figures that might be Sean and Christine. Maybe. The smallest of the three is drawn with a skirt and brightly coloured yellow hair. She's waving.

Fuck.

Dom feels a prickle that almost feels like pain, scratching at the back of his eyeballs. It kills him this, just kills him. He doesn't need this, he doesn't want this. Fuck. Alex, why did you..? Stupid question. Why do any of the Astins do anything? He flips open the card for the lack of something else to do, to distract himself from the tickle behind his eyes, and he gets to read the loopy mismatched letters that just about spell out their message. Get Well Soon. He swallows hard.

Sean's burbling something about saying hi to Debbie, and he'll leave Mac and Dom to sort out the details, and he's so happy, and it's an idea that makes so much sense, and he knows that Dom and Mac will agree, and isn't it just great…

Dom wants to ask Sean all the questions in the world, the what and why, and even the how of it. Where he gets off being so bloody interfering all the time? His head pounds, and Dom suddenly realises he's sweating more than the beer. But he can't ask anything, because now he's been left alone with Sean's brother, and he's pissed off that he doesn't even know why, that he tuned out at the wrong moment, and he's angry that Alex's card has nearly made him cry. He doesn't even know what it was that made him react, he's tough, remember? Dom Monaghan, tough as nails, Manchester roots, been round the world and back. Fucking tough.

Get Well Soon.

How dare they? He's fine. He's just fine, thank you so very much.

***

"Do you want a beer?"

Dom eyes the latest member of the Astin clan to make themselves a presence in his life, and thinks, well, it could be worse – at least this one doesn't want me to marry them when they grow up. He picks up his own bottle, plastering the label back down from it's half-peeled state, the paper squishing greasily in his hand. He gestures at the fridge in the corner, not much bigger than a beer fridge, but then, that's about all it gets used for in this place, and starts to get up.

"Nah, man, it's ok, I can get it," Mac says.

Polite then, at least. But, he's an Astin. Would Patty have let him be anything else? And he does drink. Which is something that has to be considered, here in Tinseltown.

Dom stares as Mac takes the two strides over to the fridge and listens to the gentle chiming as he rummages inside. He wonders about coming clean, about not having heard a word that Sean said, and then finds himself resentful that he's having to make allowances, that he's going to come off as less polite than Mac. That he's been fucking put in this position by an Astin in the first place.

"Sorry about the mess," Dom waves a lazy hand, knowing there are board shorts on the floor, and the ashtray's full of Lij's butts. His skin prickles as he looks back to find hazel eyes just a shade darker than Sean's own looking back into his. Mac's smiling.

"Well, that might be an issue if all of this stuff is yours."

The fucking audacity! Dom feels a growl coming on, and suppresses it with ruthless Astin practice. But his voice has roughened, he can hear it, and Mac's smile slips a bit.

"Two blokes sharing are bound to have an issue or two about the cleaning rota, right?"

"Well, yeah, that's what I meant." Mac is looking uncertain and Dom hates this. He hates being on the defensive. He hates not knowing what to say.

"So." Mac has obviously decided the pleasantries are over, and looks more serious. He pinches the corner of his mouth nervously. "What do you think? It's a great deal. Well, it would be, Sean found it for us."

And, at that, Mac looks a bit shocked at what's come out of his own mouth, the comical surprise rounding his face, the slightly too widened eyes stretching his skin free of hinted-at wrinkles, and Dom finds suddenly that he's laughing. It makes Mac look ten years younger. He looks so appalled, like a guilty child, although the comment isn't that bad. Probably because he's had politically bloody correct sweetness and light forced down his throat since he was old enough to gurgle, thinks Dom. Poor sod. He takes a swig of his warming beer, and grudgingly nods, wondering why he's being such an arse to this bloke just because he's related to Sean. Not very charitable of him.

"What do _you_ think of the deal?" he says cautiously, probing a bit for more information, and not yet willing to let Mac off the hook he's wriggling on.

"Well, it's too much for one person to rent – Sean's right about that. But there are two bedrooms, the living rooms a good size, we shouldn't trip over each other that badly, should we?"

"I smoke," Dom says abruptly, since he's getting the idea now, he's getting the idea and he realises that he should be fucking annoyed. He has a right to be pissed off that Sean has even interfered in this, how Dom's living, and dragged in his brother as an accomplice, no less. What is Dom? Some kind of charity case that can make Sean feel better about himself if he gets Dom off the streets? The man has a fucking nerve.

He stares over at Mac and realises that he's not said anything about the smoking thing. And Dom has a horrible realisation that this time, in front of this Astin, he may not have been pretending as well as he usually does, and the embarrassment of that makes his ears warm, and he clears his throat.

"I'll smoke outside though, if it's a problem." And then drops his eyes in case Mac can see his appalled inner state, because that response implies that he's willing to go along with this charade, and that doesn't seem at all fair to Mac, who seems an ok sort of bloke. Because really, when it comes down to it, it's not his fault that he's Sean's brother, now is it?

"Look. I'll just go, shall I?" Mac says quietly, and that makes Dom feel worse. "Let you think it over. I can tell the idea of us renting an apartment together was a surprise to you, so maybe now isn't the best time to discuss it. Although I should have guessed really, knowing Sean, since he does this to everyone." Dom glances sideways to catch a surprisingly sweet smile, and Mac running a hand through his hair. "It's just that he's spent the last week going on about it, and ringing me up every day, every time he found a likely prospect. I suppose it hadn't really occurred to me that he wasn't doing the same to you."

"Sean doesn't ring me every day," says Dom, cautiously, while thinking, and thank fucking Christ for that.

Mac stares at him for a second too long, and Dom knows, just _knows_, that Mac is wishing that Sean didn't ring him either. Dom gets a pang then, and he wasn't expecting it, he really wasn't, but surely Mac at least should be happy to hear from Sean, his own brother? And Dom thinks about Matt, and knows that he doesn't ring _his_ brother often, seeing as they're always in different countries, but when he does, they talk for hours. And then there's Billy, who might as well be related, when it comes down to it, and Dom misses them all, now he comes to think about it. He does.

"Drink your beer," says Dom abruptly, and reaches for his cigarettes. He shakes one out of the packet and lights it without thinking, letting the smoke drag down into his lungs. It's not such a bad idea, now is it, when you come to think about it. He can't afford a decent apartment on his own, because he has no references here, or even proper bank details. But Mac would have. And with an address, suddenly all sorts of other things become more possible, likely even. He could get a car, and a cell phone, and pimply boys in shops might pay him more respect and… And he could get off his arse and stop feeling sorry for himself, couldn't he? Well, he might.

Dom twists his mouth into something passably resembling a smile and glances back at Mac. He's gloomily staring at nothing, and peeling the squishily disintegrating label from his bottle. At least he hasn't just gone home.

Home. Which Mac presumably doesn't have either.

"Where are you living at the moment?" he asks, since it's occurred to him, and Mac looks up blearily at that, as though coming back to himself.

"With Mom."

And that makes Dom raise more than an eyebrow and Mac to smile twistily, in his turn. Dom wouldn't wish living with Patty on his worst enemy, or at least, he thinks it would drive him fucking crazy, but presumably for one of her sons it would be easier, wouldn't it? Wouldn't it? Dom shudders mentally, and then remembers what it was like in Manchester before he came to LA. How it doesn't really matter how you love them, there just comes a point…

There is a wet slapping sound, and Dom refocuses. Almost absently Mac has added his peeled label to the careful pile on the coffee table, and Dom stares. The label is peeled perfectly, not a tear, not a crease. It's a skill, isn't it? It's nice to have a skill, remember? He looks at Mac, who doesn't seem to realise what he's done. The pile of labels is all Dom's; Lij doesn't have the patience, Hannah giggles at the effort, and Sean doesn't like to commit vandalism, even on an innocent label. But this Astin. This Astin peels beer bottles. And is rung up by Sean, every single day. And is living with his Mom.

Maybe Dom's got it all wrong. Maybe he's not the charity case after all. Maybe it's not all about Sean and his family moving themselves into Dom's life. Maybe it's all about saving Mac from drowning. Maybe it's not about Dom at all.

And the fact it's taken him this long to even think of that, makes him ashamed.

***

So Dom takes Mac out to get him drunk, doesn't he? After Dom's done his thing, thanked Sean for his card, embarrassed him by smacking a great big wet one on his cheek, for Alex. And after they've looked round the apartment - with Mac being carefully neutral, and anxiously attentive, and Dom being polite, and smiling too widely, and planning on how to rescue Mac from himself - after all that, Dom takes Mac to a bar nearby, and then just as carefully, and just as politely, gets him smashed. And it's later that same night, after Dom's dragged Mac out to the greasy looking steps behind their new apartment, and after he's lit up a joint of really good stuff, and handed it to Mac, who blinks a little, but doesn't say no, that Dom gets it. When Dom slings an affectionate arm around Mac's neck as he takes a hit and stares half-lidded into the hot LA night. When he thinks about the stuff Mac has babbled tonight in between the tequila shooters, because he's as much of a light weight as Sean, really, as Lij even. That's when he really gets it.

Because he'd forgotten, hadn't he? Wrapped up in his stupid selfish shell, with his determination not to be absorbed into another family, he'd forgotten that it doesn't matter in the end. You don't get to choose your family, that's the old adage. You get to choose your friends, but not your family. And what about moving to LA had made Dom think things were any different over here?

Family pisses you off. And family drives you insane. And family sits up with you when you're ill, and makes you chicken soup, or a plate of cookies, or a great big birthday meal. Dom feels his pocket then, and the slightly crumpled shape of Alex's Get Well Soon card is still there, stiff against his palm.

Sean is a pain in the arse. It can't be denied. But what Dom has nearly forgotten is – that it really doesn't matter. Because he _is_ family. Whether he likes it or not. And that's why it hurts when Dom can't call Billy, and why Lij makes him get off his arse to go to premieres. It's why he gets made chocolate cake. It's why Mac is sat here smoking a joint on the steps of – _their_ – apartment.

Because it could be a lot worse. Dom must remember that, when he's feeling sorry for himself. When he's pounding shoe leather, and knocking on doors, and smiling, smiling… He might not have it so bad after all. He might never have met this stupid family of his to be fucking irritated by them in the first place. And if Mac can put up with Sean, then Dom…

He thinks back to the bar, between rounds, when Mac was swaying, but still garrulous, confiding, not yet quiet. He thinks back to the jagged pounding music from the jukebox, and the glassy smile that Mac was wearing, and the openness of Mac as he leant forward, his breath sweet and gusty. Dom thinks, how must it feel, and to love him anyway? Your older, shorter, fatter, plainer brother. Your neurotic whining sibling. Your brother who gets all the roles. Your brother who gets all the accolades, the attention, and the recognition in the street. How must it feel?

Dom thinks he knows, but he doesn't care either. Because Mac doesn't. Family's different, and it took an Astin to remind him. He should have bloody known. So he's going to swing past Sean's place to say thank you tomorrow, and he's going to pick up Alex and twirl her until she squeals. He's going to take out a phone contract, and use Lij as a guarantor, and then he's going to call Billy, and Mum, and Matt. He's going to sign a contract with Mac for an apartment, and he's going to smile at the world through it all.

He's going to stop whinging. He's going to stop feeling sorry for himself. Because face it, when it comes down to it – does he really want to turn into a man like Sean? No way. No way in fucking hell.

And family's good at reminding you about shit like that too.


End file.
